


Paddington and the Bank Holiday

by Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)



Category: BOND Michael - Works, Paddington Bear - Michael Bond
Genre: Gen, Holidays, Hot Air Balloons, Iced Buns and Lemonade, North Pole, The Exchange at Fic Corner 2017, fun fairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 00:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/pseuds/Jay%20Tryfanstone
Summary: When Paddington experiences his first Bank Holiday, flies in a hot air balloon, visits the North Pole, and makes it safely home in time for supper.





	Paddington and the Bank Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greerwatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/gifts).



On mornings when the children went to school, Mr Brown went to work, where he did very important things with other people's investments, and Mrs Brown stayed at home and did very important things for one of the many charities for which she knitted blankets or made flag pins or rattled collecting boxes. Paddington took his shopping trolley and the housekeeping money, and went out to the market, where he carefully assessed the ripeness of each piece of fruit and the freshness of every vegetable before he measured out Mrs Brown's pennies with a careful paw. Then, on the way home, he called on his friend Mr Gruber for buns, cocoa and a friendly chat. 

But on this particular Monday morning, everything was different. 

It started with the noise, or rather, the lack of it, when normally weekday noise was so much part of the London street where thirty-two Windsor Gardens stood that it was almost not noise at all. That morning Paddington woke up in his own bed where he was toasty warm and cosy, in his own bedroom with its neatly hung wallpaper and its deep pile carpet and its gleaming paintwork. He wriggled his toes and stretched his paws and scratched behind his ears by way of waking up, and then he was awake enough to notice that everything was different.

Windsor Gardens was not a busy street, as London streets go, but it was never quite silent. Early in the morning, Mr Eames the milkman and his Welsh Cob, Rosie, whistled and clip-clopped and jangled as they delivered the milk. Mr James the postman had an elderly, squeaking bicycle and wore clogs, with which, if Jonathan and Judy and Paddington were up early enough and Mr James' lumbago wasn't playing up, he would strike sparks from the cobbles. Young Master Singh, the paperboy, was training at the Academy and would often break into _lieder_ as he rounded the corner into the crescent with its echoing acoustics, timing each verse with the thud of _The Times_ landing on the doormat. The Brown's next-door-neighbour, Mr Curry, stalked his front garden, scaring the blue-tits from the milk tops and making sure the Merchant School pupils, straggling into school with their ribboned boaters and striped jackets and their loud discussion of the first rugby eleven and Smyth-ffoulkes' mater's whizzo plum pudding, did not throw their hats into his hedge. The people who lived in Windsor Gardens and went to work called out their farewells, started up their cars, lost their keys, and forgot their briefcases and umbrellas. The people who worked in Windsor Gardens clanked down the road with their ladders and buckets, began unloading bricks and pipes from their vans, or started swabbing down their front doorsteps and beating out their rugs. Every so often, the rag-and-bone man with his gold teeth would turn his dray into the street, shouting out, "Any old iron! Any old iron!", or the knife-grinder would trundle his wheel, squeaking and groaning, along the pavement, or the coalman would pull up his two matched shire horses with their chiming brass-laden harnesses and, grunting and heaving, tip his sacks into someone's coal cellar. Windsor Gardens was very seldom silent.

But this morning, it was so quiet that Paddington wrinkled his nose at the calendar on his wall, and peered at the alarm clock on his bedside table, and wondered if it was not Monday but Sunday. He would have heard the church bells. Breakfast would have been earlier. And although Paddington was in general an equitable bear, his tummy felt distinctly odd, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths before he sat up in bed, because thirty-two Windsor Gardens had the kind of certainty that any displaced bear would cherish and he had not realised how much he depended on it until it had changed. 

The bedroom door swung open, Paddington leapt onto his toes and brandished his hat, and Mrs Brown said, "We're nearly out of - Paddington, dear, is everything quite all right?"

"Oh, Mrs Brown," said Paddington. "I'm so very glad to see you."

"Well, thank you," said Mrs Brown, blushing a little, because the Browns were not an effusive family without the aid of a little Christmas sherry. "There's only a couple of rashers this morning, because Henry forgot to change the order with the butcher, but I brought extra marmalade." There was a very full pot on the breakfast tray she was carrying, and it was one of the pots Mrs Bird had made with Seville oranges, the kind she saved for high days and holidays. 

There could be very little wrong with a day which began with extra marmalade. "Thank you very much," Paddington said, while the funny feeling in his tummy became merely empty. He sat back down on the bed, and Mrs Brown passed him his breakfast.

"We thought we might go out today," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Henry would only pine for the office otherwise, and there's a fair in the park."

Paddington froze, with his silver marmalade spoon halfway between the pot and his mouth. "Mr Brown hasn't gone to work?" he exclaimed. Mr Brown always went to work. Even in the depths of the Great Winter Storm, Mr Brown had pulled on his Wellington boots, donned a woolly hat under his bowler, and waded through the snow drifts. 

"It's bank holiday, dear," Mrs Brown said. 

"But Mr Brown doesn't work at a bank," said Paddington.

"Everyone is on holiday on bank holidays," said Mrs Brown firmly. "Even people who make investments."

"And Jonathan and Judy aren't here!" said Paddington, putting the spoon back on the tray.

"They're on a school trip," said Mrs Brown, and looked a little sad.

"But you said everyone is on holiday!" said Paddington.

"A school trip is a kind of holiday," Mrs Brown said. "We used to play rounders, and have iced buns and ginger beer."

"Oh," said Paddington. 

"I'm sure they'll have some at the fair," said Mrs Brown, who was sometimes very good at discerning what Paddington was thinking, even if she occasionally underestimated what Paddington was doing. "But perhaps you had better eat up, just in case."

By the time they were ready to set out to the park, it was almost time for elevenses, for Paddington had never experienced a Bank Holiday Fair before and found it very hard to decide what to pack. He and Mrs Brown had had to make their own sandwiches, too, because Mrs Bird had gone to visit her sister in Bognor Regis, while Mr Brown tutted over the barometer in the hall, poised between _SUN_ and _RAIN_ on _CHANGE_ , and finally found his very largest umbrella in the garden shed, where it was keeping company with several large spiders, the washing line posts, and the hook for the blinds. 

"I'm sure they'll have sandwiches at the fair," Mr Brown grumbled, for he was carrying the umbrella, Mrs Brown's knitting bag, the picnic hamper, and a travelling rug for picnicking on.

"It's just for emergencies, Henry," Mrs Brown said. 

"And I really don't think Paddington needs his bucket," said Mr Brown.

"But there's a beach at the lake," said Paddington, who had been to the park before with Mr Gruber and Jonathan and Judy. 

"It'll be crowded," said Mr Brown darkly.

"Oh, darling, do look up," said Mrs Brown.

They stopped at the end of Windsor Gardens, looking up. Over their heads sailed, in majestic silence, a balloon as large as a bus, coloured in red and yellow stripes, and beneath it hung a basket from which two small figures waved. At first, the balloon was just high enough to clear the chimneys, but as the Browns watched, it rose higher and higher in the blue of the sky, until Paddington had to stand on his tip toes to watch it travel.

"It's a hot air balloon," said Mr Brown.

"I've never been in one of those," said Paddington, who was very fond of geography, particularly the kind that involved travelling, and it seemed to him to be a marvellous thing to be able to sail across the sky. He had been on a train and a bus and the underground and several taxis, sailed on a cargo boat and a yacht, and flown to France on an aeroplane, but he had never seen a hot air balloon before.

Mrs Brown took a firm hold of his paw. "It's all very well going up," she said, "But then you have to come down. Doesn't it look lovely, though?"

They saw two more on the way to the park, a yellow one, and a pink and purple one that looked just like Mr Brown's petunias, and when they got to the park there was a roped-off on the slope above the lake where people were very busily running around with ropes and sandbags, while the ground was covered with silks in all different colours. The park was full of people. There were rows of stalls, and fairground rides, and little huts selling tea and buns and ice-cream and candy-floss and toffee apples and sausage rolls and roast beef sandwiches. There were weighing machines, and hoop-la games, and skittles, and lawn bowls, and croquet, and all the rowing boats on the lake had been freshly painted for the occasion. Everyone seemed to be very happy, apart from the park keepers, who lurked behind the benches with spiked poles for stabbing everyone's greased proof paper sandwich bags and toffee wrappers, looking very miserable indeed. 

"I expect it's because they have to work," said Mrs Brown sympathetically.

Once he had finished his coconut ice, Paddington was very careful to roll up the paper cone and tuck it under his hat. He was already feeling rather full, and there were so many more things to eat. Mr Brown bought them all scones with strawberry jam, and Mrs Brown bought them cinder toffee, and after that there were ices and tea and ginger beer, until even Paddington was feeling uncomfortably full. He was very glad when Mr Brown suggested that they sit down for a bit and watch the hot air balloons, and Mrs Brown agreed too, so they spread out the rug on the slope and set up the umbrella for shade. Mr Brown tipped his hat over his eyes, Mrs Brown pulled out her knitting, and Paddington really felt he ought to eat at least one of the marmalade sandwiches, so he did. By the time he had finished it, for he had to eat in very small bites, Mrs Brown's needles had stopped clicking and her eyes were closed, although she was still sitting bolt upright. Mr Brown was snoring very gently, so that with every breath his hat trembled on his nose.

Paddington had eaten so much food that he was feeling very sleepy, but there were so many people around he felt that leaving his suitcase unattended would be a very bad idea indeed. He tried sleeping on top of it, but it seemed to have many more corners and edges than he thought it had, and he thought of tying it to his waist, but the elastic from the picnic box would not reach around his tummy. Not very far away from them, though, was a small wicker hut, which looked exactly the right size for a smallish bear and his suitcase. It was standing on the grass just outside the hot air balloon enclosure, and no-one seemed to be using it, although Paddington gave it a very hard stare in case it did turn out to belong to anyone else. No one noticed. 

It took some effort to clamber into the hut with his suitcase and his bucket and spade, but Paddington managed, and once he was inside the sound of the crowds was muted and no-one at could see him. Though the cushions seemed to be particularly hard, he was very happy to curl up in the corner, and go to sleep.

When he woke up, the basket was rocking, and there was a horrible rushing noise, as if he was in the middle of a storm, although there was no wind at all. Paddington had to cling tightly to the sides of the hut just to stay in one place, his hat was over one eye, and his suitcase was slowly sliding to the opposite corner. The floor of the hut seemed to have developed an alarming tilt, as if it was lurching over the grass. 

"Help!" Paddington squeaked. He couldn't hear himself over the sound of the wind. "Help!"

The hut shook horribly, rose up three inches, and landed with a thump. Paddington's hat slipped over both eyes, and he had to let go to push it back. "Help! Help!" The sides of the hut seemed awfully far over his head, and there was no door. "I'm stuck!" Paddington shouted. His bucket was rolling from side to side, and his spade was sliding with it. "Please let me out!" 

The sound of the wind got louder, and Paddington could feel a burst of heat over his head. "Help!" he shouted again, and looked around the hut for anything he could wave over his head, like a shipwrecked sailor. There were no handkerchiefs, but there were a few lengths of rope coiled in the corners, which he could use to climb out himself. Carefully, clinging to the wickerwork, Paddington inched over to the first one, but found it was firmly knotted into place. It was so firmly knotted he had to use his teeth to try and free up a length of it, and when he had finally bitten through the last strand, the rope whipped away from him and out of the basket. "Hey!" Paddington shouted, and them a hopeful, "Help! Help!", but no-one noticed.

Paddington was a bear of perseverance. He started on the second knot. 

It was only when he was nearly through the fourth that he began to hear people shouting. "..moving!" someone cried out. The wind seemed to be dying down, and the hut seemed to be much steadier, although it did feel as if it was twisting. "Tie those ropes down!" someone else shouted.

Paddington started to shout out, and then realised he still had the rope in his mouth. He bit through it, and took a deep breath.

The hut shot upwards, just like the lift at Barkridge's department stall, so that half of Paddington's body seemed to drop away from him under his feet and half seemed to stay clinging to the wickerwork, and all the air he had just breathed in squeezed out of him in a great big huff. "Oh, dear," Paddington wheezed, squeezed his eyes shut, and clung tighter.

After a moment or two, though, he had got his breath back, and the hut seemed to have steadied. "Well," he said, and then, "Here's a how de do," which was one of Mr Eames' favourite sayings when he forgot the cream, and opened his eyes. Although waving with the rope had failed, the sides of the hut were not _that_ high, and if he tilted the suitcase against one side and stood on, he would be able to see over the top. Paddington did. He held onto the top of the wall very firmly, just in case there were any more earthquakes, and peered over.

It was a very, very long way down.

He could see all of the park. He could see the lake, and the rowing boats, and the row of stalls with their gaily painted awnings, and all the crowds of people in their Sunday best hats. He could see the enclosure where the hot air balloons were, and the spread of bright silks, and a whole group of people who were looking up at him and pointing as he drifted over their heads. If Paddington looked very hard, he could see Mr and Mrs Brown asleep on the picnic rug. Paddington let go with one paw, and waved.

The people below him began to run. They seemed to be shouting, because all around them other people were turning around and then starting to run themselves, following Paddington. There were some small boys, and a few dogs, and a policeman who began to run so fast his helmet fell off, and very soon they ran past Mr and Mrs Brown who woke up in a hurry. And then they began to run too, leaving the rug and the picnic basket and the umbrella behind them. 

"I'm up here!" Paddington shouted, and waved again.

But Mr and Mrs Brown, and the crowd of people running, seemed to be getting smaller. The park was getting smaller. Now Paddington could see, not just the green of the grass and the trees and the colourful fair, but the roofs and chimneys of houses beyond the park. He could see the great dome of St Paul's Cathedral, and all the spires of the churches, and the great square tower of Westminster Abbey, and if he looked down - if he looked down now - he could see, tiny as Judy's dolls house, his very own house in his very own street. 

Paddington abruptly felt very dizzy. He felt so dizzy he had to sit down, and because he was standing on his suitcase, sitting down turned into falling down, although Paddington felt a great deal safer flat on his back in the little wicker hut. He clung there for a moment or two to let his stomach settle and his knees stop shaking, and then he looked up.

Over his head hung the huge, round globe of a blue and yellow hot air balloon. 

"Oh, dear," Paddington said to himself, very quietly.

And then, because he was a practical bear who always thought on the bright side, he said to himself, "Well, at least the Browns know where I am." And then he added firmly, "People go up in hot air balloons all the time." And then he thought of being able to tell Mr Gruber all about hot air balloons tomorrow morning, and how Mr Gruber had probably never been up in a hot air balloon himself and would be very glad to hear about Paddington's balloon, and how Paddington could probably write his own book about hot air balloons, afterwards, and he felt rather more cheerful. After all, he had his suitcase, and his hat, and his coat, and several emergency sandwiches because he hadn't been able to eat his lunch, and if they flew as far as France his passport was still in his secret pocket, so the customs and excise men wouldn't arrest him. He ate a sandwich, just to make sure the cheerfulness lasted, and then he waved at a couple of very surprised seagulls, and a young man in a biplane, and a very bright-eyed mallard who nearly fell out of the sky. He didn't really want to climb on his suitcase again and look out, because the ground was an awfully long way down, so mostly what Paddington saw was balloon and sky.

He twiddled his thumbs. Then he twiddled his toes. Then he ate another sandwich, and began to wonder how long balloon trips usually took. It was quite possible no one knew where he was, for he must be a long way from the park by now. He considered making a message in a bottle, but even if he had found a piece of paper, and a pencil, and a bottle to put his message into, and dropped it over the side of the basket, by the time someone found it he could be in Antarctica. 

Things, Paddington thought, looked very rum indeed. He reached for another sandwich, and then wondered if he ought to start rationing them.

The sun began to slide down the sky.

Paddington ate half a sandwich.

The trick must be, he thought, to make the basket heavier, because then it would sink to the ground. But even eating all the sandwiches would make no difference, because whether the sandwiches were eaten or not eaten, they were still in the basket, and even if he asked them nicely, Paddington doubted if he could find enough ducks or seagulls to weigh him down to the ground. Of course, if he wanted the basket to rise, he had to make it lighter, which must be what the very hard cushions were for, even if Paddington doubted he could throw one of those over the side. They were very heavy indeed, and when he prodded one, whatever was inside shifted, feeling like wet sand at the beach. He cut a hole in the sacking with his spade, just to be sure, and a little tickle of sand did come out and lost itself in the wicker floor, so that Paddington had to hastily sit on the hole lest he be carried higher into the sky. 

He twiddled his thumbs again.

By mid afternoon, he had eaten two more of the emergency sandwiches, and one of the emergency emergency sandwiches, which had been in his hat a few days already and came out looking a little squashed and very dry. He was just finishing up the last crumbs when the basket lurched, which was not at all the kind of motion any bear expected when finishing up their emergency rations. 

Then it lurched again. Little bits of tree were poking through the wickerwork. A few leaves floated into the basket. Something snapped outside.

Snatching up his suitcase, Paddington jammed it against the sandbags, and scrambled to look outside, just as a small branch came poking up into the hut exactly where he had been sitting. Paddington didn't notice. He was staring, not at the tops of the trees the balloon was crashing through as it fell, but the rapidly approaching iron fence. It was a very tall fence, and it had spikes on top that were nearly as big as Paddington himself.

Paddington leapt down onto the sandbags, ripped open the one with the hole, and began shovelling sand into his bucket. It was full in seconds, and Paddington swung it in his paws and sent the sand flying out of the hut. Then he did it again, and again, as fast as he possibly could. The hut bounced from tree to tree, wickerwork groaning. The balloon, loosing air, tilted and fluttered in the wind, half-collapsing on one side. Paddington had emptied three of the sandbags, shovelling as fast as he could, while the balloon sank lower and lower.

The hut bounced off the first spike, and then swung back. It teetered, straining, the wind-blown balloon pulling it in one direction, and the iron of the spikes holding it still. With a horrible whine, one of the ropes holding the balloon to the wickerwork parted, while the first spike struck through the floor. Paddington scrambled onto the sandbags, clinging onto his suitcase with one hand and his hat with the other. The basket, pulled in two different directions, began to warp, as more spikes thrust upwards. Paddington scrambled higher. And with an awful rending screech, the basket began to disintegrate. 

There was a widening hole in the floor. Through it, Paddington could see nothing but white, a startling pure white, just like snow, and then the black spears of the fence. The sandbags slipped downwards. The balloon pulled upwards. The wickerwork was unravelling.

Perhaps it was not so very far to the ground, Paddington thought, just as the entire side of the hut ripped away. He looked down again, took a firm grip on his suitcase, and jumped.

He thought, as he was falling, that the white looked very like a snowdrift. Perhaps, he thought, it will be as soft as a snowdrift. His toes were already curling in anticipation of the cold when he landed, with a very loud thump, because although Paddington was not a large bear, he was remarkably solid.

"Ow!" Paddington exclaimed, and although he was feeling just a little bit dizzy, was very glad indeed to find his paws on - well, the stuff he was sitting on was not very earth-like. It was white, and fluffy, and felt very like cotton wool, if cotton wool came in sheets that covered an area the size of a church hall and included what looked like some smallish icebergs. There was what seemed to be a small pool, although it glinted very sharply, like glass, and there was a small pale tent, just like the one Scott carried into the Antarctic Waste, and a tall pole with a sign on the top reading, "NORTH POLE". And -

Paddington had never thought to wonder just why there was such a formidable fence. 

There was a polar bear by the tent. 

Paddington tipped his hat. "Good afternoon!" he called.

The polar bear was standing on its hind legs. It was very much bigger than Paddington, with a fluffy white coat that bagged around its knees. It had a black nose, and floppy ears, and very big paws.

"I hope I haven't interrupted you!" Paddington said. "I had a bit of an accident. With a hot air balloon." He pointed upwards, where the balloon, freed from the basket, was sailing away over the trees. 

The polar bear folded its arms and looked over its spectacles. Mr Gruber did the same thing when he was explaining something complicated, so Paddington felt a little more at home.

"I'm Paddington Brown," he said, and tipped his hat again.

"You're a bear," said the polar bear.

"Well, yes," said Paddington. "I'm an emigrant bear from Darkest Peru."

"Of course you are," said the polar bear, sighing. "What else could you possibly be. And a hot air balloon. Obviously."

"I live with Mr and Mrs Brown at thirty-two Windsor Gardens," said Paddington firmly. "They'll be looking for me. I expect the police are looking for me too."

"I shouldn't be the slightest bit surprised," said the polar bear. 

"Because of the balloon," said Paddington helpfully. 

The polar bear heaved a sigh. "Did you notice the fence?" he said. "Did you consider, Mr Brown, that whatever was inside that fence could well be a vicious and dangerous beast? That the fence might be there for your own protection?" As he spoke, he spread out his arms, revealing the length of his claws, darkly gleaming. "Polar bears are not tame, Mr Brown," growled the polar bear, advancing.

"Oh, I say," said Paddington, and snatched off his hat. He still had one emergency sandwich remaining. "I am awfully sorry to be such a bother. I'm not yet very experienced with balloons, you see. Would you like a sandwich?"

"A _what_?" growled the polar bear. "A _sandwich_? A dried up, pathetic, _sandwich_?"

"It's one of Mrs Bird's," said Paddington. "Made with the very best marmalade."

The polar bear stopped, his head on one side. "Did you say marmalade?"

"Yes," said Paddington. "I've got two whole pots in my suitcase."

"Well, why didn't you say so to start with!" said the polar bear. "Guaranteed peace and quiet is one thing, but it's been all fish every day - kippers for breakfast, smoked salmon sandwiches, trout with almonds, sardines on toast - if I never have to pick another fishbone out of my teeth, I'll be a happy undertaker."

" I'm sorry?" said Paddington politely. "I thought you were a polar bear?"

"And who's to say polar bears can't be undertakers?" said the polar bear. "Everyone dies, you know, Mr Brown."

"Well, if you don't mind, I'd rather not just at the moment," said Paddington. "Mr and Mrs Brown would be awfully upset. And Jonathan and Judy, they're coming home next weekend, and then there's my Aunt Lucy at the Home for Aged Bears in Peru, and Mr Gruber, he'd have no one to share his iced buns with." He was holding his suitcase very tightly.

"I'm not in the habit of making work for myself," said the polar bear, frowning very sternly indeed over his glasses. 

"I'm glad to hear it," said Paddington, and forced himself to let go of his suitcase. "I'll just get the marmalade out, shall I? I'm sure it's very good for polar bears. And I don't suppose," he added hopefully, "There's any chance of a cup of tea, is there? Only it's been a long time since lunch." 

The polar bear huffed. "I don't know what the world's coming too," he said. "Flying bears. _Foreign_ flying bears." 

"Just a small cup," said Paddington hopefully. "It's very good marmalade."

"I expect it's better with toast," said the polar bear gloomily. "And butter."

"It's just as good if you eat it from the pot," said Paddington. "Although," he added in the interests of fairness, "Your fur can get a little bit sticky."

"Huh," said the polar bear. "Well. Yes. I expect you're right. Most things come to a sticky end, eventually. I don't suppose you'd like some sardines with it, would you?"

"I don't know," said Paddington. "But I wouldn't mind finding out."

"Then come along, Mr Brown," said the polar bear, and stomped off towards the tent. "Quickly now. Time and tide wait for no man."

He walked on his hind legs, and his back feet were very large and furry indeed. He looked, Paddington thought, as if he was wearing white fluffy Wellingtons. And now Paddington came to think about it, it was very odd that there should be a polar bear in the middle of a forest in England, living in a field covered in sheets of cotton wool, which was very difficult to walk across. Paddington's paws kept getting bogged down in fluff, and strands of it twirled around his claws. By the time they got to the tent, his feet were great balls of cotton wool, and they made it very difficult to stand up on the groundsheet. Luckily, there were several packing cases marked, "ARCTIC RATIONS" and "OPEN IN CASE OF EMERGENCY" and "THIS WAY UP" upside down. Paddington sat down on one, the polar bear pulled up another, and then he unbuttoned his paws and reached for a box of matches, steadying a little spirit stove which was balanced on another packing case with a couple of mugs. "Nasty little thing, this," he said, lighting it. "Spits. Careful where you put your paws." Then he took off his glasses, fiddled with the fur at his neck, peeled it away, and, in a little round hole revealed a long, lugubrious face with drooping eyebrows and deep lines around his mouth. He put his glasses back on. "Mr McClure, superintendent, Woking Co-operative Provident Society, Undertaking Department," he said, and shook Paddington's hand. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure." 

"Delighted," said Paddington, finding his paw a little limp with surprise. "Mr McClure," he said carefully. "I hope you don't mind, but I can't help noticing that you're not...a bear."

"Nothing of the sort," said Mr McClure. He leaned forward, his fur coming perilously close to the stove. "It's my wife, you see. She's the Women's Institute Champion Amateur Bagpiper."

"I see," said Paddington, who didn't.

"I don't know if you've ever shared a house with a set of bagpipes, Mr Brown," said Mr McClure, "But it's a terrible strain on the ears, you understand."

"Well, no," said Paddington. "In fact, I don't think I've ever met a bagpiper."

"A fate to be avoided," said Mr McClure, all the lines of his face drooping further. He shook his head. "It's a sad tale, Mr Brown, but let me warn you, never be foiled by Victoria Sponge. It was the jam, understand."

"Indeed," said Paddington. "Mr-"

"Light as air," Mr McClure said.

"Mr-"

"Could have floated away on the breeze," said Mr McClure.

"Mr McClure!" Paddington shouted. "Your fur is on fire!" And he lunged towards it, flailing with his hat. 

Luckily, given that Mr McClure nearly tipped the stove over, and Paddington did trip over his own woolly paws, and both of them fell into the tent pole, the fur was merely smouldering. By the time they sorted themselves out, there was little more to show that a few grey patches, a little soot on Paddington's hat, and a strong smell of burnt cotton. 

"Thank you very much, Mr Brown!" said Mr McClure, shaking Paddington's paw again. "That could have been a very nasty accident! Much obliged. I'm sure."

"Pleasure, Mr McClure," said Paddington, and deposited his hat firmly back on his head and himself back on the packing case. He reached for his suitcase. "I think the water's boiling," he offered, "And here's the marmalade."

Mr McClure stopped pouring, and squinted at the pot. "No label," he said. "Handmade."

"The very best oranges," said Paddington, who had bought them after much deliberation.

"Can't be as good as my wife's," said Mr McClure gloomily.

"It's Mrs Bird's best!" exclaimed Paddington indignantly.

But Mr McClure unbent enough to hand Paddington a mug of tea and take a taste of the marmalade. "Hm," he said, ruminating.

Paddington helped himself to a larger spoonful.

"Not bad," said Mr McClure. "Could do with a little more salt."

"Salt!" said Paddington.

"And toast," mourned Mr McClure. He took another spoonful. "Very sticky."

"I expect it's better than sardines," said Paddington.

"True enough, young bear," said Mr McClure. "I don't suppose you'd like a tin? I've got enough for months, and only three days of my shift left."

"Well, if you can spare one," Paddington said, because Judy sometimes liked sardines for breakfast. 

"I don't expect bears like sardines," said Mr McClure, but he dug into a packing case and found a tin of John Forrester's Best Alaskan Sardines In Oil. 

Paddington took it carefully. "I didn't know undertakers liked sardines," he said. "Thank you."

"Polar bears do," said Mr McClure. "Apparently."

"But," said Paddington, "Why are you pretending to be a polar bear?"

"It's the national bagpipe championships. Same time every year," Mr McClure said. "Nothing but practice. Practice!" He made a sound like a donkey laughing. "And no cake for weeks. Better to be out of the house. Quiet as the grave over here."

"I expect so," said Paddington.

"Of course, there are always the visitors," said Mr McClure. "Poking sticks through the fence. Throwing their caps at the North Pole. Chucking pennies into the pond! Mark my words, there'll be a sad accident one day."

"I shouldn't wonder," said Paddington.

"But it's for a good cause," said Mr McClure. "The Indigent Co-operative Funeral Workers Fund. Very worthy. Tickets sixpence each, cheap at the price, and that includes the penguins, the sledge dogs, the North Pole, the explorer's hut, the polar bear, and the hire of an Eskimo costume, any damage to be paid for at the gate."

"Penguins?" said Paddington, wondering if he should hand over sixpence. 

"Painted geese," said Mr McClure.

"Oh," said Paddington. 

"Only lasts a week," said Mr McClure sadly. "Three more tours today. Sixteen every day."

"I expect everyone's pleased to see you!" said Paddington bracingly. "You growled very well."

"Very kind of you to say so, young bear," said Mr McClure, and looked a little pleased. "I do practice." He felt around in his suit, the fur rippling. "Here. Have my card."

Paddington took it carefully. It read, "Mr McClure, Funeral Director" and was edged with black paint.

"Special rates for Browns," Mr McClure said. He hesitated, looking Paddington up and down. "Bears is extra."

"I should think so!" said Paddington, and tucked the card safely in his suitcase. 

"And now, I daresay, you'll want to be getting home," said Mr McClure. "No bagpipes in your house, I expect."

"I don't think so," said Paddington doubtfully, because it was never quite certain exactly what was in the garden in shed, and he had no idea what bagpipes looked like. "But that'd be very kind of you, Mr McClure. I expect Mr and Mrs Brown are quite worried by now."

"Then come along," said Mr McClure, turning out the stove and buttoning up his face. "If you wouldn't mind just giving me a hand with this right paw...the other right paw..."

And so by the time they left the tent, Mr McClure was once again a polar bear, and Paddington felt very much happier. Together, they arranged some of the icebergs, which turned out to be apple crates under the cotton wool, into a ladder, and Paddington climbed up to the top. He was just about start tipping boxes over to the other side of the fence, so he could climb down, when he heard what sounded like dogs barking.

"Quick!" said Mr McClure, a little muffled. "That's the sledge dogs! The next tour is coming!"

"I can't!" said Paddington, peering down. It was a long way to the grass. 

"Climb down this!" said Mr McClure, and threw him the long pole with the NORTH POLE sign on the top. 

Paddington was not a large bear, and the pole was very long. He teetered on one paw, and then the other, while it swayed over his head, and then dived downwards. The end with the sign fell into a tussock of grass, and not a moment too soon, because Paddington could hear children shouting and the crack of a whip. "Thank you very much, Mr McClure!" he shouted, and slid down the pole, just as sixteen German Shepherds and an empty sledge on wheels careened around the corner. Mr McClure dragged the pole back over the fence, Paddington took a firm hold on his suitcase, and the dogs ran into each other in astonishment, tangling their harnesses and up-ending the sledge.

"Quickly, Mr Brown!" shouted Mr McClure. "That way to the exit!" He was pointing down a long forest track.

"Thank you very much!" Paddington shouted back, and taking a last look at the tangled dogs, began walking. The track was shaded by the trees and made of short, soft grass, and it was very comfortable to walk on, especially after the cotton wool unwound itself from Paddington's paws. Very shortly, he came to a signpost, which read, "THIS WAY TO THE PENGUINS" "NORTH POLE" and "REFRESHMENTS". Paddington had already been to the North Pole, and he was not very fond of geese, which in his experience were aggressive and unfriendly creatures. He set off for REFRESHMENTS, but had not gone very far before he heard someone shouting. 

Paddington had not paid his sixpence. He walked a little faster, trying to look as if he was the kind of bear who visited the Arctic every day. The shouting got louder. Paddington walked faster. His suitcase was banging into his knees, and he began to think that, if he had known he would be taking a hot air balloon to the North Pole, he would have packed rather more sandwiches and not all of his scrapbooks. 

"Paddington!" someone shouted.

Paddington turned around. Behind him, to his astonishment, was a whole line of very small Eskimos, running along the track, and in the lead was an Eskimo girl with long fair hair and a jolly, round face.

"Judy!" Paddington said, astonished. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"What on earth are _you_ doing here?" said Judy, and hugged him, panting. "We're on a school trip. But I didn't expect to see you here! Did mummy and daddy come too?"

"I rather left them behind," said Paddington. "There was a hot air balloon."

Judy looked at him very hard for a moment, and then she laughed. "Of course that was you," she said. "But, Paddington, everything's very organised. We get counted onto the bus and counted off again, and no-one's expecting a bear. I think we'd better disguise you if we're going to get you back to Windsor Gardens."

"That would be very kind," said Paddington gratefully, because he had begun to wonder how he was going to get home. 

By now the other children had caught up, and Paddington shook many hands and tipped his hat to everyone as Judy introduced them. All of the children were wearing fur anoraks with beaded hoods and fringes, and furry boots, which did make them look like Eskimos, although they were also a little flushed in the warm afternoon sunshine. "It's immersive education," Judy said, wrinkling her nose, because Judy's school was given to _individual freedom_ and _purposeful activity_ , which meant lots of outside lessons and _team activities_. Mrs Brown thought it was wonderful, Mr Brown hmphed, and Judy had complained at length about the lack of a hockey team, until she started one. "But Makoktok is really Innuit, and he's brought his own clothes. So we've got spares."

Makoktok was small and dark haired and had little, laughing eyes under his fur hood. "I'm from Nunavut, in Canada," he said. "My mom and dad work at the embassy."

"I'm from Peru," says Paddington, "I'm an emigrant bear." He put out his paw.

"I've never met an emigrant bear," said Makoktok. 

"I've never met an Innuit," said Paddington, and they shook hands. 

"Stand still," said Makoktok, and leaned in, rubbing noses. "That's how we say hello in Nunavut."

"Very pleased to meet you," said Paddington, and resolved to try rubbing noses with other people at the earliest opportunity. It seemed far more friendly than just shaking paws. 

"And you're welcome to have the spare costume," said Makoktok, and reached into his rucksack. "I think it will fit you," he said, a little doubtfully, holding up a fur anorak. 

"Of course it will," said Judy stoutly.

They both heaved, and tugged, and made Paddington put his hands up and then put them down again while everything went dark, and eventually he was wearing the anorak and in disguise.

"You won't even need to wear boots," said Makoktok, looking at Paddington's furry paws.

"And it fits over your hat!" Judy said, and pulled up the hood, just as the first of their teachers came running up the path.

It was very warm in all that fur, but the children had plenty of ginger beer, and Paddington was much happier meeting the painted geese in company. They were very proud of their smart paintwork and rather less unpleasant than he remembered geese being. Then he pretended not to know Mr McClure in his polar bear suit. He went for a sledge ride, practiced sliding on the artificial ice rink, and explored the Explorer's Hut with its maps and scientific instruments. It was only when they were leaving, queuing up to get onto the huge black-and-yellow striped coach which had brought the children to the North Pole and was going to take them back to London, that Judy remembered Paddington was not really there at all.

At the top of the steps, one of the teachers was ticking off names in a very official looking black register. Paddington's name was not on that register.

"Oh, no," Judy muttered. "Paddington, quick - go round the back of the coach, we might be able to open a window and let you in!"

But it was too late. The teacher had looked up from her register. She was a tall woman, with black eyes and a tall cone of greying black hair she looked very stern indeed. She was looking straight at Paddington.

"Children," she said awfully. "Move aside. There is a stranger trying to get on our bus!"

"I'm not a stranger!" said Paddington. "I'm a bear!"

"Even worse!" said the teacher. "Everyone inside, quickly!" She was glaring at Paddington. "We must call the police!"

To Paddington, who was used to the nice young policeman who always stopped the traffic for him when he went to the park, and the friendly sergeants who always made him tea at the local Police Station, this seemed like the best idea ever. "Oh, yes!" he said, relieved. "Please do!"

At that, the teacher drew herself at glared even harder. "Shameless!" she said, and snapping the register shut, she hustled everyone else onto the bus, sent the nice young teaching student to call the police from the Indigent Co-operative Funeral Workers Fund office, and stared at Paddington from the top of the steps until the police arrived. It seemed a very long wait, and Paddington got hotter and hotter in his anorak, while Judy made helpless faces at him through the window. He was a bedraggled small bear indeed when the police car drew up.

"Finally!" said the teacher.

There was a young, tall policewoman in the car, with red hair and freckles and a friendly face, but she was not smiling as she walked over to Paddington. "Now then," she said. "What's all this?"

"This bear-" said the teacher. "Was trying to-"

"Please help us!" said Judy, peering round the teacher's skirt. 

"Oh, please do help!" said Paddington.

The tall policewoman looked down at him. Very gently, she tipped back his hood, and then took his hat off, studying his face, and the shape of his ears, and then his suitcase. Her face was slowly breaking into a very nice smile indeed. "I think," she said. "You might be the missing Mr Brown."

"Oh, I am!" said Paddington, and was so relieved his knees gave way beneath him and he had to sit on his suitcase. "Thank you!"

"There's been a missing person - a missing bear - notice about you since lunchtime," said the nice policewoman. "We're very glad to find you."

"I wasn't really missing," said Paddington. "I knew where I was. But I'd be very glad to go home now, please."

"Of course," said the nice policewoman, and she helped him out of his anorak, made sure he had all his things, and tucked him into the car. 

Paddington had flown all the way from London to Suffolk, and by the time he got back to Windsor Gardens, the sky was starting to get dark and he was a very tired bear. The nice policewoman drew the car up to the curb, and let him out. "Now you look after yourself," she said. "No more flying hot air balloons, all right?"

"Not again," Paddington promised, and thanked her.

The white steps up to thirty-two Windsor Gardens had never seemed so high, but before he got to the top, the door was flung open, and there were Mr and Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird, all of them looking so very happy to see him Paddington felt a lump in his throat. "Oh, Mrs Brown," he said. "I've had such an adventure."

"We're so glad to see you," said Mrs Brown, bending down to hug him very hard indeed, while Mr Brown humphed in the kind of way that meant he would have said exactly the same thing if he wasn't Mr Brown, and Mrs Bird looked very stern and brushed a tear from her eye.

"I met an Inuit boy," said Paddington, "And a polar bear. And I've been to the North Pole!"

"Of course, dear," said Mrs Brown, giving him another hug. "Marmalade for supper?"


End file.
